


Then the lights were on again

by MooseintheRain



Series: Human observation project [1]
Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Unreliable Narrator, mistakes intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:13:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29100816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseintheRain/pseuds/MooseintheRain
Summary: There was always something. Either the soft voice while his gaze cuts deep into your being and just knows, or the soft and hesitant defeat behind an exasperated sign accompanied with a theatrical headshake.But I didn't know, and walked away as I did every day after class, after the office hours, after saying my lines and playing my part.Behind us, he stood there, his head down and his face unreadable in the blinding light of the projector. He stood there as if he’s always been there, as if he’s faded into the background too.
Relationships: My memories/me
Series: Human observation project [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2135184
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Then the lights were on again

**Author's Note:**

> Also: How I twisted an un-background-ish protagonist into background material.

He stood at the end of the hallway, between the gentle humming of the engine room and the crazed whistles of the North, face blurred under the emergency sign’s fading carmine.

It’s as if he hasn’t just arrived, as if he’s been there all along, passively taking in the off-handed jokes that were only socially acceptable online and that somehow multiplied, squared and cubed the awkwardness, the uncertainty behind each sentence, the hectic voice in everyone’s head shouting and ordering them to _just shut up_.

I expected the footsteps to resonate in the not-so-empty empty hallway, kind of like how cheesy thrillers, corny dramas and the general media depict them. For the mood, of course, then add some generic spooky sound effect. But they didn’t.

The world escaped me again, her voice reduced to a distant, familiar murmur, yet everything was fine; the conversation casual and curt; the rest of the things seemed to flow as easily as the St. Laurent into the Atlantic. Or was it that I escaped from the inevitable moment of confrontation?

Was there any confrontation to begin with?

* * *

Everyday felt like the first day of school: the animate crowds of high school friends, the artsy lone wolves — how cliché, and ironic for such unique personalities — the quiet geniuses; bright and gentle, grim and fiery souls molded into the same diverse crowd of any average cegep students, fresh out of high school, fresh into life with taxes and tuition fees and rent — freshmen and freshwomen and freshpeople with an air of freshness in this brick brown building of chipped ceilings and faded graffiti. The coming and going of the same peoples under the same roof. The eerie familiarity of something new clashing against and caressing the freshness of something old.

In the centre of this organized chaos was the protagonist, armed with his projector and last-minute slides, scrutinizing his screen and seemingly out of this world.

Except that anyone who has attended an English class would point out that he wasn’t the protagonist because the story is supposed to follow such a character as the stage lights illuminate their figure. The lights weren’t on him, and neither were all eyes.

The students who always had questions, the hormonal teens, the silent observers leaning against the wall at the very back.

Then came the silence, and the lights were naturally off while Donnie Darko pirouettes across the pale screen. Or was it Cthulu? Oh that’s right, we were talking about Lovecraftian horror, the Unknown, and how Arthur Dent is a _wonderful_ and _wonderfully_ _plain_ human archetype… were we?

Then the lights were on again.

* * *

“Nah you wouldn’t want to stay. Get outta here.”

Lines straight out of a Hollywood teenage movie. Old-fashioned humor, playful throwbacks and (un)ironic (?) stereotypes. But why?

The actor waved as if chasing away a fly, but was afraid to hurt it, and did so softly that it could hardly count as a dismissal.

There was always _something_. Either the soft voice while his gaze cuts deep into your being and just _knows_ , or the soft and hesitant defeat behind an exasperated sign accompanied with a theatrical headshake.

Everything went according to the script, but there was no script. Before I knew it, my body followed the hypnotizing neon gray backpack in front of me that was pulling me out of the classroom, out of the scene, back to… where?

What happened before… _what_?

But it didn’t matter, because things went _well_ , and that was all that mattered.

The cheerful chattering faded again, and I can’t seem to recall what he said before that.

Behind us, he stood there, his head down and his face unreadable in the blinding light of the projector. He stood there as if he’s always been there, as if he’s faded into the background too.

* * *

Then I remembered, as we left his office for the last time, the turbulent memories almost suffocating me before the snowstorm could, I remembered everything, and wanted to _go back_ , but my feet took me to the present, and push me towards the future, never looking back, stopping but never staying for no one.

“Or you can stay for a while if you want.”


End file.
